


the treacherous body

by monopolizers



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5 Times, Dom/sub Undertones, Gentle Kissing, M/M, Puppy Play, Shower Sex, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 04:11:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11409945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monopolizers/pseuds/monopolizers
Summary: He wasn't embarrassed about having fantasies of his friends--as far as he could tell, that was fairly normal for someone his age. What he could not decipher was the normalcy of his desire. It wasn't even sex, necessarily; it was what lay beyond intimacy. A trust that he could not give anyone. Maybe the fantasy was not the kiss at all but the idea that he could trust someone with his body.Five times Yuri fantasised about Otabek.





	the treacherous body

**Author's Note:**

> tags cover general content, drop me a comment if you need more specific warnings.
> 
> Yuri's age isn't specified; in my head, he's 17, which I remember as an age where I was constantly sexually frustrated.

1\. 

 

He said good night and clicked off his bedroom light. In his head he was replaying the conversation. There was very little ever said between the two of them, but for whatever reason he found the time precious anyway; to see Otabek's dark eyes, the mess of his unkempt hair, filled him with a tender joy. Yuri rarely had the chance to be intimate with other people; in some ways, he could not understand what intimacy was. Nonetheless, he could recognise that this Otabek was one others rarely had the chance to see. The one who could laugh helplessly at Yuri's cat's antics or the one who frowned when he concentrated. If that was intimacy then Yuri was satisfied with it. To a point.

Here was the point. Under the covers he could feel all the aches and pains his body forgot when he was upright. He could also feel the insistent tug of arousal low in the space between his legs; it seemed to come from nowhere and have no purpose. Lately it had been ever present, a force at the back of his mind that propelled him with fury and frustration. Yuri was used to understanding his body, and he was used to controlling it; this was something he could neither control nor understand, and that infuriated him. 

His cock throbbed and he slid down a hand. Went back to a standby, an old fantasy that would have embarrassed him if he ever thought about it in the light of day or with a clear head.

A hotel bed. Otabek. They were lying facing each other. There was inane conversation--he skipped over it in his head. Sometimes he would let it build up, imagine the tension mounting between them in a slow wave. Now he was in a hurry and wanted to get to the good part. There was some point--some manner--in which Otabek leaned forward and kissed him. It would be slow. Otabek would glance at his eyes and then his lips and then lean forward, a gentle hand on Yuri's cheek.

This was where it got good. Yuri could feel his cock throbbing in his hand; he gasped into the dark air of his bedroom, trying to keep silent. It didn't matter that no one could hear; hearing himself made him feel self-conscious. Nothing should break this dream.

In the fantasy Otabek learned that secret shame of Yuri's, his unmanly lack of experience, but he wasn't put off by it. He offered to teach Yuri. They ended up with Yuri on his lap. He had spent a lot of time going over this in his mind, building it up; he slowed down. The hotel would be dimly lit, and the curtains were open, so that the neon skyline of some anonymous city was framing them. He was taller than Otabek, so he would be looking down, maybe straining his neck. His hair fell around his face and Otabek pushed it back carefully, hands lingering on his cheeks. They sat like that and kissed softly for hours. Otabek's lips were dry and warm. Yuri had imagined it. How gentle it would be. How he could give himself over to it. How he could be comfortable on Otabek's strong thighs, warm in Otabek's embrace. It was Yuri's fantasy and so Otabek knew all of the things about him that no one else knew because they had never gotten close enough. He never touched Yuri's shoulders or the small of his back. He let Yuri set the pace. He was firm but he wasn't--

Unexpectedly, in his small room and his small bed where the streetlight shone in through the cracks in his curtains, Yuri came over his fist. As with every other time, he could feel the regret seeping in, and the cool air of reality too. He wasn't embarrassed about having fantasies of his friends--as far as he could tell, that was fairly normal for someone his age. What he could not decipher was the normalcy of his desire. It wasn't even sex, necessarily; it was what lay beyond intimacy. A trust that he could not give anyone. Maybe the fantasy was not the kiss at all but the idea that he could trust someone with his body.

He had never thought about it much before but now he wondered if that were true. If trust were only a fantasy, a dream at best. At the very least, others seemed to have no problem with it. After a moment's thought, he decided it was a problem that merited later consideration. He wiped his hand off on his sheets; he would wash them tomorrow. Finally his eyes were heavy. The masturbation had achieved its main goal, which was to quiet his insistent body. With a last breath, he was asleep.

 

2\. 

 

He had a rare evening off at the same time as Otabek, so today they were Skyping with laptops instead of their usual quick FaceTime before bed. For some reason he had always thought that they couldn't have much to say to each other--or rather that he couldn't have much to say. To Otabek or to anyone. He'd given everything to skating, much to the detriment of other areas of his life. The result was that he knew nothing of politics, he couldn't name any popular book series, the only parts he knew of cities he'd been to were their hotels and their ice rinks, he was illiterate in art and culture. Despite this he found Otabek easy to talk to even when Otabek put a moratorium on skating, such as on evenings like this. Perhaps because of his own reticent nature, Otabek did not expect a great deal of conversation from him. Sometimes they would sit in silence and browse the Internet until one of them found a link he wanted to show the other. Today Otabek was more talkative; he was branching out in his DJing and despite Yuri's lack of musical knowledge he seemed to appreciate Yuri's opinion. Right now he was watching Yuri listen to some Korean song he'd sent.

"It's fine," Yuri said. A careless shrug. He was wearing an overlarge shirt and it slipped off his shoulder; he shrugged it back on. Lately, he had been more conscious of his appearance in ways he was unused to. Of course, he was normally conscious of his appearance, of desire, of the desirability of his body; but it had never affected him before, it had never been something that shocked him. Now it did. He thought he could see Otabek's eyes track his movements, though maybe it was a trick of the grainy video. 

Otabek's eyebrows furrowed, so maybe this wasn't the reaction for which he'd been searching. The problem was that he was subtle and Yuri was incapable of subtlety. What he liked Yuri was almost guaranteed to dislike. In other ways it worked for them; musically it could not. 

To his horror he realised that he could feel himself getting hard, caused by a shift in air pressure or a slight wind or the shape of Otabek's mouth or some other totally useless detail. Otabek was talking now, but Yuri wasn't paying attention except to the rumble of his voice. He tried carefully to relieve some of the pressure by surreptitiously pressing down on his dick, but it didn't help; he let out a gritted breath through his teeth and tried not to be too loud in case Otabek noticed. He felt his face burn in shame at the thought, but his mind spun out the thread and kept it going. It started, of course, with Otabek noticing the movement of his arm beneath the table. Otabek would raise an eyebrow. 

"Are you busy?" he asked, voice dry. Yuri stammered out a non-answer, and Otabek, sensing his humiliation, sat back, settling in his chair so that Yuri could see the spread of his legs, his hefty thighs. "Move back," he said, and Yuri would do it without even a protest. It made the corner of Otabek's mouth tick up.

He asked Yuri to remove his shirt, his pants. They sat for a moment staring at each other, and Yuri was conscious of the light highlighting every part of his bruised, skinny body. Then Otabek would ask if this were his first time and Yuri would have to nod, aware of the flush that started on his cheeks and spread down through his chest. He was, as always, ashamed of that.

In this fantasy, Otabek liked it. He wanted Yuri to stroke himself through his briefs. He wanted to watch. He wanted Yuri to imagine it was his hand, there with him, stroking him rough and quick, removing the control Yuri had over his body and ceding it to Otabek instead. He said to Yuri, "I want to hear you," and Yuri would moan aloud, helpless to the rasp of Otabek's voice. 

It was a fantasy because it could never happen, and because Yuri, right now, was in the bathroom furiously jerking his cock, having told Otabek he thought he could hear his grandfather calling him. When he came, he was thinking about Otabek telling him to come, and the satisfaction that might appear on Otabek's face if he could do it on command. For a moment he stayed like that, hunched over on the toilet seat, sweat dripping down his back and temples, come on his hands and a little splattered on the bathroom floor. Then, mechanically, he cleaned himself and the bathroom up. Returned to Otabek like nothing had happened, pissy attitude firmly in place. 

"What do you think of this one?" Otabek asked, and Yuri said,

"Give me some time to listen to it, asshole!" in the same way. As if everything were the same. And it was.

 

3\. 

 

At the end of a long day of practice, he rested his forehead against the cool metal of the lockers for a moment, gathering his mind and thoughts, before sitting on the bench and starting to unlace his aching feet from his skates. He liked to train alone; if he could have, he would have had days on the rink all to himself to push his body past what Yakov or Lilia or anyone else thought it could do. He wasn't satisfied and not even capable of satisfaction, though he would not have said that of himself. Rather he simply wanted to achieve that feeling of weightlessness, the one that took him out of his head, the perfect uncanny valley movements of a computer simulation of passion. 

As he went through the rituals of the end of a day of practice, his mind wandered, as it tended to do. This morning he had briefly Snapchatted Otabek, who had replied with a picture of himself shirtless, straight out of the shower. Knowing Otabek, it wasn't meant to be anything--couldn't have been. All the same, it had shocked Yuri out of his early morning reverie. To him it signified another level of intimacy, another step in their relationship. Everyone saw their bodies on the ice, but off it, Otabek tended to cover himself. Even Yuri, who was harsh with himself in an effort to curb what he recognised as burgeoning feelings towards Otabek over which he had no control, understood that there was some sort of significance in that ephemeral photo. What it was he had no idea.

Fingers too loose to hold the laces of his skates, he closed his eyes in an unconscious effort to recall the photo. It had disappeared quickly but still he could bring it up in his mind--the strong ridge of Otabek's nose, his wet, black hair, the small uptick of one side of his mouth. The framing hadn't revealed much, but still: there had been water dripping down Otabek's collarbone. He had a little bit of hair on his chest. Yuri gritted his teeth against it. He was getting hard. He could hear, faintly, the drip of a shower someone had not fully turned off. Suddenly he was very glad he rarely saw Otabek in practice rooms; he knew, without having to think about it, that he would not have been able to keep his eyes away from Otabek's naked body. Unwillingly, he slipped his fingers around his cock and began to stroke. 

How would this fantasy go, he wondered, and heard the shower drip again. Then he was in the locker room with Otabek. They were showering together after a practice and Yuri's eyes kept flicking towards him without meaning to. His firm ass, his strong thighs and calves, the golden sheen of his skin. At some point he would have to turn to hide his cock getting hard, but Otabek would--somehow--notice and grab his shoulder.

"Were you meaning to hide that?" he asked, voice low. Yuri, paralysed with arousal and nerves, would only be be able to shake his head.

Otabek asked him to stroke himself once, twice, and then seemed to grow impatient. He pulled Yuri toward him; Yuri's feet skidded on the wet locker room floor and they crashed into each other, bodies sliding wetly. Otabek would tip his chin up but he wouldn't make a move; they'd stand there staring at each other until Yuri couldn't stand it anymore. He pushed forward and pushed his mouth against Otabek's, a furious kiss, a tiger strike. He almost moaned aloud at the thought; here, in the real world of the locker room, he was torturing himself with this idea, the slow slip of mouth against mouth, body against body. 

Otabek reached down and encircled both of their cocks in his big hand. When Yuri hissed at the feeling, breaking the kiss, Otabek didn't miss a beat; he buried his free hand in Yuri's golden hair and nudged their mouths back together. It would be an overwhelming stimulation, Yuri thought; he was used to pressure in just a few places. His feet, his legs. But to be like that with Otabek, his entire body pressed against Yuri's, the heat of their mouths together, the soft velvet hardness of Otabek's cock against Yuri's--it would probably be more than he could bear. 

He spurted into his fist, panting. Still in his skates, looser now, he struggled to the nearest sink and washed his hands, then unlaced himself. Turning, he walked to his locker, and for a moment, pressed his hot cheek against its cool metal. Behind him, the shower was dripping; other than his breaths, it was the loudest sound in the room. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his hands to his face; then he sat down and continued getting ready to leave.

 

4\. 

 

Probably the worst fantasy he had, the one he only allowed himself to think of when it was 4 AM and he absolutely could not sleep, was the one that went against every bone in his body.

Yuri was a cat person; it was known. He loved cats and they loved him in return. He liked to think it was a recognition of kindred spirits--after all, he was feline in ways that cats could appreciate. 

That was why he couldn't explain this. 

There was no buildup, no scenario he had to concoct. He was on a bed on his hands and knees, panting and blindfolded. Behind him, Otabek was working a big plug into him, much bigger than anything he'd ever experienced before. He felt something soft brush against his inner thigh and jerked; Otabek patted the curve of his ass, murmuring something soothing he couldn't catch. Then some sort of headband was fixed behind his ears; then Otabek shifted up to near his head and opened Yuri's jaw, pushing something hard and metallic into Yuri's mouth and fastening straps behind his head. With it in Yuri could only whine helplessly until Otabek patted his thigh. 

"Sit up," he said gently, and Yuri allowed himself to be positioned the way Otabek wanted, sitting on his heels, his hands behind his back. The plug inside him shifted with him, and he moaned with the sensation. He could feel Otabek get off the bed, moving something heavy closer. Then the bed dipped behind him and Otabek removed his blindfold, allowing him to look at himself. A muzzle in his mouth; dog ears on his head; and what was probably, he realised now, a dog tail attached to the plug. Otabek's head appeared behind his shoulder. Making sure Yuri was watching, he buckled a plain black leather collar around Yuri's neck with the careful grace of someone handling his most precious possession. Instantly, Yuri was harder than he'd ever been in his life.

Many of Yuri's fantasies involved very little speaking; he couldn't conceive of either himself or Otabek as people who could spout off the way Victor or even Victor's little piggy could. Thus, across his fantasies, he and Otabek were intuitively in tune with each other; they didn't need to speak because their bodies were enough. This fantasy--was an exception.

In it, after he was collared (he could barely even think this word), Otabek would parade him around the house on his hands and knees. Since it was a fantasy he didn't need to worry about his body. The plug, weighted in some way Yuri couldn't understand, would shift inside him, and sometimes it would begin vibrating. His cock would stay hard, leaking and untouched against his belly, while he dozed off against Otabek's knee and Otabek murmured words of affirmation to him, telling him what a good boy he was, how sweet he was, how obedient and graceful he was when he put his mind to it. Sometimes Otabek would unbuckle the muzzle and tell Yuri to get him off, and Yuri would nose around Otabek's groin, the musk of Otabek's scent making him dizzy. He couldn't suck, because dogs couldn't suck, so he'd lick up and down Otabek's cock until it was shining slick with spit, thick and heavy and fat with arousal. Otabek would hold his jaw open and fuck his mouth until he came down Yuri's throat, and the entire time he would be petting Yuri's hair, caressing his face, telling Yuri how beautiful he was. 

Other times Yuri would misbehave and Otabek would punish him. He kept Yuri muzzled and on his hands and knees on the bed, playing with Yuri's body and toying with the plug inside him until Yuri was howling out wordless noises and begging for mercy. Otabek would ask him if he were ready to be good and Yuri wouldn't even lift his head; he'd cower until Otabek petted his hair and slowly pulled the plug out of him and fucked him, fucked into him until he was howling again. And they came simultaneously, and afterwards Otabek removed the muzzle and slip off the headband, but he kept on the collar, the collar that Yuri loved best, heavy on his throat, and they'd lie on the bed, kissing softly.

In the darkness of his room his eyes burned with how badly he wanted it. 

 

5.

 

"Are you okay?" Otabek asked him at near the end of one of their FaceTime chats. 

"I'm fine." It didn't sound convincing, but it wasn't false--he was fine in all the ways that counted. His skating was better than ever; he had handled his growth spurt with a grace most people were not granted. He was doing well.

There was a pause. "You don't look well." Sometimes it was like Otabek could read his mind. Yuri turned from lying on his front to his back, holding his tablet above his head.

"I'm fine, Beka." There was a touch of the impatience he rarely displayed with Otabek, and maybe it signaled Otabek to back off, because he inclined his head.

"Whatever you say, Yura." There was another pause between them. Then Otabek said, "I'm getting an early start tomorrow, so I think I need to go to bed. Take care of yourself." Even over the low quality video screen, his eyes were crazy dark, intense in a way Yuri could never quite understand. 

"I always do, asshole," Yuri snapped, and then, softer, "Night." Then he hung up; there were no elaborate goodbye rituals between them. He dropped the tablet on the dresser beside his bed and for a moment lay on his side, his cheek smushed against the pillow. _Take care of yourself_. Not quite a command, but if he pushed enough--

What would Otabek have said if they'd been together?

Maybe: _let me take care of you_.

"I'm fine," Yuri would say. He'd bat Otabek away until he was convinced to lay on his stomach and groan as Otabek's big, warm hands ran over his back. Otabek kissed the nape of his neck, pulled Yuri up a little to pull off his shirt, and then kissed his way down Yuri's back. "What are you doing?" Yuri groused, and Otabek wouldn't say anything; he'd just keep going, pressing light, dry kisses down the curve of Yuri's spine. He'd pause for a second to pull Yuri's hips up and slip his pants and briefs off; then he'd stop, hands on Yuri's ass.

"Turn over," Otabek said, and Yuri, warm and comfortable by this point, obeyed slowly. Otabek studied him for a second; the glow from their bedroom lamp (their!) made him look both warm and imposing. He looked best in warm lighting, Yuri knew by now, and wanted him in it always. He shivered under Otabek's gaze. Otabek looked at him for a moment longer; then he bent his body over and kissed the spot right below Yuri's abdomen that always made him shiver. He kissed lower, into the blond hair of Yuri's pubic hair, then after a moment he gave a slow, languorous kiss to the head of Yuri's cock that made Yuri moan aloud with pleasure. When he took Yuri further into his mouth, Yuri's hands slipped for a moment into his hair, and then, when Otabek's gaze snapped up to him, flew back to the headboard, where they were meant to be. They both knew the rules of this game, even if they were loosely followed at best. 

When Yuri came, Otabek swallowed. Then he pulled Yuri's legs over his shoulders, while Yuri was still relaxed, and kissed his inner thigh. Then, somehow, he was fucking Yuri, his hands locked onto Yuri's wrists and his powerful eyes holding Yuri's own captive. They weren't speaking; Yuri didn't think they'd ever need to speak when they were like that. He didn't care about the details, the preparation, the messiness; this was his fantasy, and he wanted to fantasise about a trust so intimate and powerful that he never had to say a word to be given what he needed. This was it--to belong to someone, to belong to Otabek. To be Otabek's most precious. To be held by Otabek like this, wrists pressed down into the bed, fucked into the mattress, eyes leaking involuntarily with the overstimulation of it all. 

This time, when he came in real life, he realised he was actually crying a little bit. In fury he washed his hands and then washed his face; he could hear his grandfather lower the TV volume to figure out what he was doing, and pre-empted it by saying, "I'm going to sleep, Dedushka! Good night!" 

His grandfather told him to sleep well, but he knew he wouldn't. This couldn't go on like this, he thought. Feelings like this were for other people, people who had normal lives. Yuri had one thing, and that was skating. He only knew how to focus on his emotions like he knew to focus on his skating: a razor blade, an arrow straight to the heart. Even he knew that teenage feelings like this weren't sustainable, and yet he wanted them to be so badly. He couldn't imagine ever meeting anyone else like Otabek; he couldn't imagine wanting anyone who wasn't like Otabek. 

Before he switched his bedside lamp off, he texted Otabek: _I really am fine. Thanks for asking. Can we talk tomorrow?_

He hadn't expected an answer, but at 2 AM he was awoken by a bright light flaring: the phone notification. It was only one word: _Yes_.

 

 

_and so the delicate, unfixed condition of love, the treacherous body_  
_the unsettling state of creation and how we have damaged—_  
_isn’t one a suitable lens through which to see another:_  
                   _filter the body, filter the mind, filter the resilient land_

\--from "Chronic," DA Powell.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not completely satisfied with this, but it's fine for the first fic I've posted since, uh, September.
> 
> my [tumblr](http://hotgaydumbledore.tumblr.com).
> 
> thanks for reading!


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